Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst.
MARK
"Jesus, Roger, you okay?"
I was staring at the beginnings of a black eye as Roger hunched over the desk in history. Sometimes he looked small and frightened, but usually he looked a little too big for the desks. "Yeah," he muttered. "I would've done the other guy worse but Thomas is a pacifist this week," he sneered.
"I am not a pacifist. It wasn't worth it," Collins said.
"We have a new nickname," Roger informed me acidly. "We're the 'faggy boys'."
"After your protest," Collins retorted, "I'm not surprised."
"I'm not a fag. Even if I was gay I wouldn't be a fag," Roger snapped.
Jones stopped the conversation quickly, telling us to get to work on our essays, and we did. I was thinking about Roger's comment, though. 'Fag' just means 'homosexual'. It's a really crude word, but that's what it means. So how can a person be gay without being a fag? Did Roger not know what it meant? I shook my head. There was no point in wondering, and I had work to do.
In the middle of history class, a note landed on my desk. It made a soft, shushing sound as it skidded, then settled near my elbow. I looked around. Collins and Roger were both working. That's odd. I opened the note and read:
Mark, you ok? Roger.
I sighed. No, I was not okay. I glanced at Mrs. Jones; she was busy grading our quizzes from earlier. No. My dad yelled at me today. I feel like shit. I tossed the note back at Roger--not to him, at him. I needed to lash out at someone. Roger always lashes out. I'm jealous. Just once, I'd like him to be the mature one and handle the situation by himself, without dragging me into it.
Which is unfair. Roger does not have the most stable home situation. I have two loving parents and my sister, who does not need to be looked after. Roger doesn't have that.
Mark, sorry. Why's he shouting you out? You're Good Boy Extraordinaire. Roger.
Mom was looking through my stuff and she found the last note. You know, the one about… you know. Roger passed me a note a few weeks ago and, after a while, we got to talking about masturbation. It was in English class. It wasn't too inappropriate a conversation, but there were a few details about the foreskin and its involvement. I couldn't help myself, I was curious.
Psh. So what? You're not supposed to touch yourself?
I turned around and sneered at him. "Don't be a prick." I wrote nothing back, but moments later a paper landed on my desk, another note from Roger. I unfolded it and read, Mark, I'm sorry. He shouldn't shout at you. You're a good person. Roger.
Despite myself, I smiled. In response I told Roger, It's been constant lately. Like every day, he wants to see my homework and my math tests. And it's like if I have a B, it's not good enough. Mark
Mark, The fuck! You're doing really well in math. Look, it may not be any better but you can always come to my house. I mean, Grandma Davis is there right now and she's crazy, but you're still always welcome. Roger
Roger, Thanks. I may take you up on that, come over for a "study session." Mark
Mark, You are using that as a euphemism, right? Roger
Roger, Duh! Why do you think I put it in quotation marks? Mark (haha)
Roger folded the next note into a little airplane that hit my shoulder and bounced on the ground. "Dammit!" Jones glared at us and Roger clapped a hand over his mouth. Dear quotation Mark, clever! Very glad. Look, I made a paper airplane. He had also drawn a cartoon of a tree.
Your airplane sucks.
Fuck you. You can't climb my tree. Look, it has a fort. Roger's "fort" was a square with a triangle on top inked into the foliage of his cartoon tree.
Is that what that is? I thought it was a birdhouse.
Fuck you! Get out of my fort.
I was never in your fort. Your fort sucks, anyway. I drew a picture of a castle under the words.It was a basic fortress, four walls and four towers, one at each corner. For good measure, I added in a large beak eating Roger's treefort. The bell rang a moment after I returned the note.
"What the fuck is that?" he asked me.
"That is my dragon," I replied. "He's eating your tiny fort."
Roger pouted. "My fort is not tiny. It's done in miniature."
I rolled my eyes. "Oh, it's to scale with your penis?"
At that Collins showed the first sign of interest in our conversation, staring at me as though he could not believe I had just said that. "Shut up about my penis," Roger snapped. "My penis… that's the tree. And yours is the fort.
Collins rolled his eyes. "Guys, we're gonna be late to English."
That day after school, I dropped my bag to the ground and rolled my shoulders. Roger can crack his. He dislocated the left one once, just popped it right out. It hurt; he grabbed it and whispered "Ow!" before smacking it back in with a sharp scraping sound of bone rubbing against bone. Remembering this, I shook my head.
Roger grabbed my shoulders. I yelped: he had pressed his thumbs hard against my back. "You want me to stop?" he asked.
"No, that's good."
Roger continued massaging my shoulders, easing the pain of a heavy backpack. When Collins joined us, he rolled his eyes. "Could you be any more of a flirt?" he asked.
"He likes it," Roger protested. "Mark's shoulders hurt."
"They do," I added, as though Collins had accused Roger and I needed to defend him.
Collins only laughed. "I'll bet."
I didn't care. My shoulders did hurt; I had started bringing my history book to school each day to work, and the added weight strained my pathetic muscles. As Roger's hands eased the tension and pain, I let my head droop, thinking of his mother and how sad she always looked. Roger knew what he was doing. I suspected a reason, but… why ask? Why put that pressure on him? I had just regained Roger, and I was not about to lose him again simply to know why he made me feel so good.
We jumped apart when my sister came in. She probably would have told my parents, but G-d only knows how she would have maligned the truth. Dad would kill me. Of course, in Cindy's version of the story we would probably be topless and I would be touching myself.
"Um." I straightened my glasses. "These… um… these are my friends. This is Roger--you know Roger--and Tom Collins." I pointed. "Collins, this is Cindy. My sister."
"Hi." Collins laughs the hardest, swears the most and makes the dirtiest jokes of the three of us. When he wants to, though, he can be as prim and proper as you please, nice posture, soft spoken, offering his hand to my sister as she gives him a strange look.
At last she managed to say, "You… you lent that book to Mark, didn't you?"
Collins considered for a moment. "It's possible. Which book?"
"I Never Promised You a Rose Garden," she said. "I borrowed it from him--"
I interrupted, "You what? You can't do that, you can't just go through my stuff and take things!" I never minded before, if only because arguing against Cindy's invasions was a futile effort, because you know your sister would ask if you were around, and she always returns your belongings in fine condition. Now I have something I don't want her to see. If she began leafing through my notebooks, the things she might find could condemn me.
My play is nearly finished. I added in a scene in which Sadie and Matt set the table together and they are both so upset that they start to shout at each other, just having this intense screamfest in which they tear each other and the world to shreds and that's the finale. That's the last scene. When the curtain rises they are standing together, holding hands, center stage, broiling sweat, their chests heaving from exertion and they grin, make eye contact and laugh as they bow to a standing ovation…
Obviously I can't write all of that. I did write the screamfest, though. It's a good scene. But in the scene, it's pretty obvious that I think homosexuality is okay. And then at the back of that notebook is the drawing. My dad would just flay me.
"Look, I know I shouldn't've had it, but I read it and… my G-d. It's just so totally beautiful and honest."
"Well, it's based on reality," Collins said. I was impressed. My sister had essentially hijacked him, and he was more than humoring her. He was giving an actual conversation. I wouldn't have done that. Then, Cindy had not thought to bring the book up with me. I felt my head sink slightly at the thought: why would she not talk to me about it? Admittedly I had not known the things Collins was saying now, but she might at least have asked me.
As Cindy babbled on, I realized I was jealous. I didn't want it to mean anything to her. She couldn't possibly understand. It had been a special book, a book for me, that spoke to me. It was my illness, my warning, my guide.
My stomach began to twist. Cindy had no right. My ears filled with wind. How could she--
A warm touch brought me crashing back to reality. "Mark? Come on, honey," my mother encouraged. I looked around. Where were Roger and Collins? What…
It was nighttime. I was in the living room with my parents and Cindy. Outside, rain lashed the windows. Yet… yet just a moment ago Roger and Collins were over. Roger was holding my hand. I know, I know we went outside and stretched out on the grass and watched the stars. I know we stayed until our skin was cold to touch and Collins tripped in the darkness. I know we sat in my room in our pajamas drinking cocoa and giggling like mad. Why do people think boys don't giggle? We giggle. We told jokes and laughed at each other. And I know for a fact that I made Roger sing and that after a while he stood and looked at my notebook and that when he asked if he could read it, I promised he would be the first to know when I finished my play.
But now I was in the living room. Everyone was watching me. Glancing at the window, I caught a glimpse of my reflection: I was pale, eyes wide, looking terrified and wearing my blue yarmulke. There was one candle in the menorah. "Go on, Mark," Dad prompted.
I lit a match, lit the shamash and exhaled the prayer, words blurring: "Barukh atah adonai eloheinu melekh ha'alohm asher kitshanu b'mitzvatah v'itsivanu lchadnigh ner shel Chanukah." And I was panting, unable to catch my breath as I wriggled the shamash into its holder. My parents seemed oblivious, just lauded my Hebrew recitation.
"Thought about that confirmation?" Dad asked, guiding me with one hand on my back.
We were headed for the kitchen. My head spun. I needed to sit down. I needed to lie down. My tongue and mouth had gone dry, my throat constrict. I fell into a chair at the table.
"Well, Mark?" Dad asked, insistent.
"What?"
"Have you given thought to your confirmation?" he asked.
"I…" My eyes lit on the covered dish on the table. "I haven't thought on anything but Mom's latkes," I stammered, and at least earned my mother's approval.
As always, they were great, that's no lie. I hardly tasted them. I was too worried about the episode. It had been a long time since the last one. I thought having Roger back had made this stop, but here it was again, still happening. I was losing my mind.
Great. Just what I fucking need. I have APs in five months, my SAT in three, and to add to that, I'm crazy.
TO BE CONTINUED
A menorah is a candelabra used during Chanukah. The shamash candle is lit from a match, then used to light the other candles. The Hebrew Mark recites is a transliteration. I've only ever seen it in Hebrew so, please judge gently. Latkes are potato pancakes.
